


Doubt Truth to Be a Liar;

by thegoodthebadandthenerdy



Category: El Internado | The Boarding School (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, dead poets au, iván is neil marcos is todd héctor is mr. keating, kinda ooc for au purposes, the softest thing ive ever written, this leans more towards prose than anything, too many motifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodthebadandthenerdy/pseuds/thegoodthebadandthenerdy
Summary: anonymous asked for a dead poets society au of el internado





	Doubt Truth to Be a Liar;

**Author's Note:**

> This is...sappy. 
> 
> Also, I gave Iván glasses for no other reason than the fact that Neil wears glasses and let me tell y'all, nothing has ever felt so Right™
> 
> Title from Shakespeare's Hamlet; quotes from the poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" are not mine.

> Doubt thou that the stars are fire;  
>  Doubt thou that the sun doth move;  
>  Doubt truth to be a liar;  
>  Bur never doubt that I love.  
>  \- William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_  
> 

Iván sees him the minute he walks in the door. All gangly limbs and downcast eyes and shuffling feet. He takes a seat a couple rows ahead, diagonal, so Iván has a good view.

A view off soft hair, cut to perfection at a clear hairline, curious glances around the room, tapping fingers.

Iván decides immediately. The boy's beautiful. The boy's going to be his friend.

He feels a tap on his shoulder, so he swivels in his seat to face his friend, Caye. Caye brushes his curl hair back and grins. "New kid, huh?" he asks, and he already knows, because he knows Iván better than most anyone.

"New kid, indeed," Iván replies.

Roque, who's sat next to Caye, leans near-sideways so he can catch Iván's attention. "Give him the day at least, huh? He looks scared to death."

"Exactly. I'll be…a friendly face. Because first day at any school you want to make a friend, right?"

Roque rolls his eyes. "You're shameless. But I'm telling you, give him the day."

"And I'm telling you, time waits for no man."

"Oh, God, this is serious, he's actually remembering things he's been taught," Caye comments idly, but there's a grin tugging at his lips.

"Shut up," Iván laughs, turning back around in his seat just as their teacher walked in.

He perches himself on his desk, one foot planted firmly on the ground, one jiggling slightly in the open air, one hand brushing his tweed jacket back at the hip, one in front of him to help enunciate his words.

"Take out your textbooks and turn to the introduction," the man says. Iván's eyebrows pinch, but he does as instructed; he's on strict orders from his father to make it through the year with as little incident as possible, or it's military school next semester.

They do the regular paces, reading aloud, dissecting the meaning of words that weren't written with hidden meaning. 

The real shock is when the teacher tells them to rip the introduction out. Rip it out, 'til there's nothing left.

Iván adjusts his glasses; thick-rimmed things that sit on his face like another limb. He'd be lost without the familiar weight on the bridge of his nose, the edges just inside his peripheral, the marks on his cheeks when he takes them off at the end of the day.

Through those glasses, he watches the new kid place his fingers at the top of the paper, watches his resolve waver, watches as pages i through iv are jaggedly removed from his textbook.

Iván smiles, rips out his own pages, crumples them into a tight ball, decides that the new kid is a work of art, decides that he wants to learn everything about him.

\----

Iván remembers that day fondly. Remembers what felt like seeds in his stomach finally cracking open, ready to sprout something new, something green.

He remembers Marcos, nervously flicking his gaze around the room. He remembers wondering if they'd be close in two months, in three. He remembers thinking his life had been changed the moment he spoke to him later that night.

He remembers smiling to himself every time he saw him, every time the other stammered or stuttered or refused to meet his eye. He was an enigma, he was a question, he was an answer and a missing piece. 

Iván remembers falling in love with him. He remembers meeting his eyes and everythibg clicking. The seeds in his stomach, the butterflies in his mind, the tremors in his lips, the slickness of the back of his neck.

Iván remembers it all. Seeing and falling and flying.

And now he lies in bed, looking across the sizeable dorm room, wishing.

Remembering isn't as fun anymore. Sure, it makes him smile, and sure, it makes him feel light, but it makes his heart constrict, makes him want to take his glasses off and rub the heel of his hand in his eyelids until phosphenes flash in the darkness there.

Remembering, Iván decides, isn't what it used to be.

So now, he wishes.

Iván isn't new to wishing. No, he's been wishing since he learned the word. Wishing for his mother, for peace, for quiet, for friends, for his father to let go of the preposterous idea that he wanted to go to medical school.

Iván's wished for a lot of things.

He's afraid he used up all his wishes a long time ago. He needs them back, would give back all the peace and quiet he ever received if this, this one thing would happen.

Iván's been wishing for Marcos. 

For Marcos' hand in his own, for Marcos' eyes to always be warm when he looked at him, for his laugh to be soft, for his heart to be softer. He's wished so much that he thinks maybe wishing is for fools.

"Can I sit?" 

It's that voice that breaks Iván out of his wishing. Out of his remembering. 

"Of course," he replies, because it's true, he's always allowed to sit.

Marcos lowers himself to the patch of bed beside Iván, who has he back pressed against the cool wall, his head tilted back, eyes shut, glasses askew.

"What're you thinking about?"

"I'm not."

Marcos hums, accepting this response for only a moment. "What're you doing, then?"

"Wishing."

Iván's heart flutters a little; the only person he's ever told about his wishing is Caye, and that was only to ask advice because Caye had been wishing on Roque since they were 12.

"What could you possibly be wishing for, Iván Noiret? No, let me guess." Iván feels the loss of his glasses, rolls his head to the side to find out what for. "For better eyesight?" Marcos asks, glases perched on his face awkwardly. Nothing about it is malicious, it's warm, it's gentle, sweet in only a way he can pull off. 

Iván's heart decides flutters aren't enough when he sees Marcos laughing with his glasses on.

"For you," he expels it on the wave of a breath, it's such an ingrained part of him now that it sometimes comes as thoughtlessly as breath does.

Iván remembers the look on Marcos' face before he said it, _admitted_. It was carefree, the perfect match to his laugh. His hands were on the glasses' frames because even if he was picking at Iván, he was still careful, still aware.

Iván wishes he hadn't said it. And of all his wishes, it's the one he wishes the most.

Marcos doesn't say anything for a long moment, just blinks in those glasses that do nothing for his acute eyes.

"Me?"

Iván has questioned many things in his life, Caye often jokes that he's questioned 20 things before he wakes, but the _one thing_ he's never questioned is Marcos. Never questioned their friendship, never questioned the feelings that trailed up his spine and nestled between his shoulder blades. Never questioned a single what if. So now he has to say it without question.

"You."

He wishes he could go back to remembering, but his conscious is firmly planted in the present, a fact that he's almost too aware of.

"Why would you wish for me?"

Iván reaches over and takes his glasses back, his touch soft, his eyes sad. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You could wish for better things."

"Nothing is better than you," he shrugs, it's a simple truth he's known for what feels like his whole life.

Marcos exhales, reaches forward, nabs Iván's glasses back. He's always astoundingly gentle with them, even though he knows there's two more pairs in the desk drawer, even though he's seen them go through hell.

Iván watches him fiddle with them, fold and unfold them arms, not making eye contact.

"There are plenty things better than me, Iván," he whispers.

And Iván wishes he could make Marcos believe in him the way he does. Because Iván has known for so long that he's imperfect, and flawed, and all these other things, but that's what makes him Marcos. That's what makes Iván love him.

"Marcos-"

But the door tears open and Caye and Roque stumble in, laughter rolling off of them in waves as they cling to each other, holding one another up.

The mood in the room becomes sober as the two laughing boys take in the boys on the bed. 

"Who died?" Caye frowns, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

Marcos hands Iván his glasses back and gets up, hands in pockets, moving towards and out the door without a word.

"What'd you do?" Roque asks, untangling his arms from Caye's.

Iván smiles sadly at his lap as he pushes his glasses back on his face, adjusting them to bide his time.

"Wished," he finally responds, looking up at them with that same bittersweet pull to his lips.

\----

Marcos counts his steps as he moseys down a familiarly unfamiliar hall. He lets the tap, tap, tapping of his shoes against the tiles underfoot take over his thoughts, pushing everything else away.

One, two, three, four, five, and on and on. He follows his feet, not his mind, and he ends up in a hall that looks like the same one he was in moments ago. It isn't until a voice calls out to him that he realizes where he is.

"Marcos?" Mr. de la Vega tries again, his head peeking around the doorframe to his classroom.

"Sir?" 

"Are you all right?" he asks, shifting until he stand fully in the hallway. His usual suit jacket has been discarded, his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and Marcos thinks that he looks incredibly young to be as wise as he is.

"Yes," he nods, because he needs to be. Has to be.

"That's the third time you've passed my door in the last half hour," the other says, not accusing, just factual.

Marcos nods, scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, clears his throat. "Right, sorry."

"Come on," Mr. de la Vega calls, disappearing into the doorway with barely a second's notice.

Marcos follows after him, finding him, for once, sitting in the chair behind his desk.

"Have a seat," he says, not unkindly. His face looks concerned, a wrinkle deep in his forehead as he watches Marcos cross the room and slide into the front most desk.

Marcos waits to be addressed, to be questioned, for anything, but his teacher sits in front of him peacefully, humming under his breath as he shuffles through a stack of ungraded papers with a red ink pen.

"Uh, sir?" Marcos finally asks. "Is there a reason I'm here?"

He looks up, eyebrows high, like he's forgotten Marcos was even there.

"I figure you'll talk about what's bothering you once you've sorted through it all," he says, waving his hand. "And all that pacing wasn't helping anyone; tap, tap, tap, up and down the hall."

Marcos's face rushes pink. "Sorry."

The barely-bearded man finally sets down his pen. "Do you remember the Robert Herrick poem I shared at the beginning of the year?"

Marcos nods. "The one about the rosebuds."

He laughs. "Yes, the one about the rosebuds. ' _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; and this same flower that smiles to-day, to-morrow will be dying_ ,'

"And do you remember what I told you is the basic sentiment of that particular verse?"

"Carpe diem," Marcos replies. "Seize the day."

"Exactly," he nods.

"I'm still not sure what that has to do with why I'm here," Marcos admits.

The man nods, as if he was expecting this, running his hands over his eyes. "Think of whatever's bothering you as the rose."

"All right."

"No matter if it's a problem or a rose, if you leave something on its own long enough, you will always come back to find it in worse shape than how you left it in the first place. The problem may have gotten out of control, the rose may have wilted; do you see what I'm getting at here, Marcos?"

Marcos nods, tapping his fingers on the desk in front of him. "If I wait until tomorrow to pick the rose, it could already be wilted."

Mr. de la Vega beams, clapping his hands together. "Exactly! So, if the rose is your problem…?"

Marcos gives everything a moment to sink in, his fingers tapping across the desk fervently. "I should go…talk to him," he mumbles, mostly to himself.

Mr. de la Vega tries to hide his small smile behind his hand, but Marcos still catches the tail end of it as he abruptly stands. "Thank you for, uh, the words of wisdom? I, I kind of need to go, though?"

"Go, go," the older shooes, flicking his hand towards the door. "And good luck."

Marcos grins as he reaches the door, but keeps moving forward.

\-----

"I don't really see what the big deal is," Caye finally says. "I mean, he probably wasn't expecting it and he just needed some time to process. You _know_ Marcos, he can make a decision in a second but he's still goning to think about it for a while."

Iván sighs. "But what if the decision he made isn't, I mean..."

"The one you were hoping for?" Roque supplies.

"Exactly."

"I think he'll be back soon to sweep you off your feet, but I'm not one to get in between a man and his self-pity," Caye grins, elbowing Iván gently in the side.

Iván elbows back, tries to smile, but they're both half-hearted, and Caye can tell. 

"It's gonna be fine," he whispers, bumping Iván's shoulder. "Promise."

Iván shakes his head, almost to himself. "For once, I really hope you're right."

Roque finally breaks the silence, taking Caye's attention as he starts rambling about the paper they have due next week.

Iván takes the time to stare at his hands. They're barely creased, a few lines here and there. There's a gouge, from a fall he had as a kid. There's freckles, along the base of his thumbs, a few on the backs of his hands. He's got knobby knuckles, long fingers, rounded nails.

He thinks, for a moment, that they look like his father's hands. 

And then, for a moment longer, he thinks that he wishes they didn't.

But, that makes him wonder what other parts of him are like his father.

And then, he wishes he hadn't said a thing to Marcos.

Iván once worried that he'd be like his father. And then he started here, at this school, and his friends showed him that wasn't who he was. So he hadn't worried about it for a long time.

But then he thinks about Marcos. Thinks about his smile, his soft laughter, the way that he's always wary around people, but never Iván. He thinks about the smiles they've shared, the jokes, and the late night conversations.

He thinks about that first day, when he saw him, when he decided that he needed this shy boy with the tapping fingers to be his friend.

And then he thinks that he'd never be able to live with himself if he hurt him.

He wonders if maybe, maybe he already has. If by saying the words he did, he tainted their smiles and conversations and jokes and off-handed touches.

He wonders if he was selfish.

He stops wondering.

"I'm going to go for a walk," he proclaims, standing up from the bed. He smooths his slacks, adjusts his sweater, his glasses, his facial expression.

The boys left on the bed hum, knowing better than to offer their company.

Iván sighs, pushes his sleeves up, shoves his hands in his pockets, starts walking.

It isn't long before someone joins him.

He knows the stride, the scratch in the otherwise pristine leather of the shoes, the picked-at cuffs on the school-issued sweater.

He knows the tapping fingers, whether they're tapping at desks or thighs.

"Iván-"

"I've been thinking a lot, Marcos," Iván says, finally looking up to meet the other boy's eyes. "And I think that if we forget about what I said-"

Marcos shakes his head, his hands starting to move in front of him, they always moved faster than his brain could push words to his mouth. "No, listen, I talked to Mr. de la Vega."

Iván quirks an eyebrow, purely out of habit. "Mr. de la Vega," he repeats.

"Yes, and he started spouting metaphors, I got a little lost, for a minute, but he was talking about that quote, the one about the rosebuds."

"' _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is_ -"

" _A-flying_ , yeah, that one, and I realized, Iván, that you're…"

"I'm what?" Iván asks, and that's when he realizes they've stopped in the middle of the hall. 

Marcos grins, the one that makes Iván's stomach flip, the one he wishes on. He takes Iván's face in his hands, it's something he's done hundreds of times before, but it makes Iván's ears heat still. "You're my rosebuds."

" _Rosebuds?_ " he asks, unsure if he'd heard correctly. He blinks owlishly behind his glasses, waiting for confirmation.

"Rosebuds," Marcos agrees.

"Okay," Iván grins.

"And I don't want to wait until they're wilted. In fact, I'd prefer them unwilted."

"That's good." And then Iván laughs, his cheeks digging into his glasses, or vice versa, he doesn't know, doesn't care.

"It is."

Iván braces himself, licks his lips, softly asks, "You know roses have thorns, right?" 

Marcos nods. "I'll be careful," he promises, voice gentler now.

And Iván can't help but be breathless. Because in front of him is this stunning boy with an enigmatic smile and comets in his eyes, making promises that sound like the wishes Iván has been whispering to himself for months.

Iván reaches up, wraps his arms around Marcos, pulls him forward, pulls him close, and just hugs him.

He feels the press of Marcos' grin against his shoulder, feels arms go around his hips, feels a tentative brush of lips against the barely-stubble on his cheek.

In all of his wondering, his wishing and remembering, nothing has ever made him feel this euphoric. 

He thinks that maybe he could get used to living in the moment, if the moments are like this.

\-----

Marcos counts the days since, something to hold on to when that bubble of panic surges in his throat. 

He counts the looks, now lingering, made up of soft eyes and crinkled skin, something to think of while he scratches answers on his worksheets.

He tallies up the touches that last almost too long, the soft brushes of fingers, and the times he's raced through the halls with familiar footsteps behind him when he can't sleep.

He counts the taps of his fingertips against unlined palms when the sun washes over them, whether it be early morning or dusty sunset during class.

He counts and counts and files things away for later and revisits them when he finds the time.

But his favorite thing, is to make Iván laugh. Or have him smile and murmur sleepy, soft words. Or see him take off his glasses and rub at his eyes and turn that lopsided, unsure smile towards him.

Because then he can count each and every one as a win.

And if Marcos understands one thing, it's counting.

\-----

Iván remembers every touch. Every brush of lips stolen in abandoned halls, every tangle of their fingers when they make their way across the school's lawn for their late night meetings.

He remembers cold mornings and warm hugs, the casual toss of an arm around his shoulders, a not-so-jokingly placed hand around his waist.

He remembers bright eyes, brighter smiles, gentle words.

He remembers every soft-spoken confession, every downward flick of eyes, every nervous expression. But he always remembers how to assuage concerns.

He thinks of all the lines of love they've been taught, and how nothing quite compares to that pull in his chest when he sees 

He thinks all these things and more, remembers even more than what he thinks. 

But he doesn't wish. 

He doesn't think he'll ever need to wish again.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little challenging to write, but in a fun way. I tried to pull back in some of my prose-adjacent writing style to give it a certain feeling, and I hope I accomplished that?
> 
> I'd actually really love to write more in this au or maybe even actual dead poets fic? If you've got an idea of what you'd like to see with either of those (or any other kind of fic in general), find me on tumblr as pixelpagesoftruth (I was thegoodthebadandthenerdy) and send me an ask or message. I love getting neat requests like this one!


End file.
